Nighterrors
by notesofwimsey
Summary: What the night cannot hide ... Strong M rating.
1. Nighterrors

Disclaimer: All characters and settings for CSI:NY are the intellectual property of Bruckheimer and the network. Honestly, would I have written this season's storylines? I don't think so.

A/N: Not a pleasant piece. But I am in the middle of a self-inflicted life upheaval – I'm not feeling pleasant.

Anki – this perverted laundry tale is for you.

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_Nighterrors_

_He went for girls with long honey-brown curls sweeping down to their shoulders, brown eyes warm and a little shy. _

_He used to go for buxom blondes, but not any longer._

_When he saw one on the street, in a store, his heart would thump into his throat for a moment; then, with his customary predatory smile firmly in place, he would stalk and trap his victim, capturing first her attention, then her attraction, and finally – usually – her willing seduction._

_Six and counting. _

_One in a movie theatre: first she dropped her popcorn on him, then later dropped to her knees and sucked him into a vortex._

_One in a park: he bought her a coffee and threw a ball for her dog before backing her up against a tree only yards from a busy biking path._

_One in a grocery store: they ended up fucking in her van, a child's car seat staring accusingly from the back seat._

_Two in a bar: same night, same dilapidated bathroom stall, different song being played by the band, a faux country group that sang about cheating hearts and broken dreams._

_And tonight it was midnight in a small neighbourhood laundromat with only two working dryers and only one other person in the place, folding up sheets and towels and lacy underthings designed to drive a man wild._

_A short conversation, a weak moment, a devastating kiss, and she was on top of the violently spinning washing machine, him caught between her thighs thrusting and cursing and coming as she convulsed around him, panting and laughing._

Thump! Thump! THUMP!

Lindsay woke with a sob caught in her throat and a violent pounding in her head, falling off the couch and sprinting to the demented washing machine which had spun off its bearings and was merrily waltzing across the floor.

She went to the refrigerator and pulled the orange juice out, draining it straight from the container. But no matter how much she swallowed, she could not dislodge the stone in her throat, the bitterness in her mouth, the raw images that haunted her night after restless night.

Images of him with other women, his eyes, mocking and a little sad, staring over their shoulders into hers. Images of him caressing them, seducing them, filling them. Images of him every night with a different woman.

All of whom looked like her.


	2. Night Sweats

_Disclaimer:__All characters and settings for CSI:NY are the intellectual property of Bruckheimer and the network._

_A/N:__Thanks for the reviews and comments.__It continues to not be a nice piece._

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**Night Sweats **

He sat on the windowsill, bottle of beer swinging between two fingers, staring out into the dark streets washed with a little shower of freezing rain. The roads would be a slick treachery tomorrow; he pitied the uniforms who would have to be out patrolling the streets.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a clock chiming: 2 am. His shift started at 8. If he went to sleep right … now … he could still clock enough pillow-time to function in the morning.

He took a swig of beer, grimacing at the yeasty warmth which clogged his throat, and stared up, across the roofs. A door opened, drawing his eyes to the shaft of light which streamed briefly across the sidewalk, then clicked off suddenly as the door slammed shut. A moment later, a car engine roared briefly, another flare of light hit the building, and then there was silence again.

He pressed his forehead against the cold window for a moment, then took another swallow from the bottle, finishing it off.

Gently, he placed it on the floor beside the others.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, rubbing at first, then pushing a little harder until the light display behind his eyelids became a screaming fireworks show. He could hear a sound now; it was a soft and inexorable thumping.

He turned to look into the shadows gathering behind him. Something was there. This time he knew it. He held his breath… one minute…two.

Nothing moved.

He turned back to the window, pushing a hand against the glass. To centre himself? To hold himself up? To throw himself out of?

He didn't know.

Wearily, he curled up on the floor, pulling a blanket from the couch over him.

It still smelled ever so faintly of her.

_He heard a shot._

_"Ruben! Go home! Go on – get out of here!"_

_Another shot, and he was running towards the boy, hands held out, grabbing him up and holding him close. Another shot, and this one he felt tear through flesh and bone, taking away his breath. He looked down at the boy in his arms and screamed. Blood… his… the boy's… mingled together and streamed into the gutter, rain washing it down the street._

_He looked up at the sky and the rain was blood, dripping down on his face, into his mouth._

_He looked down at the broken body in his arms, and it wasn't Ruben. It was Lindsay, and she was staring at him in horror._

_"What have you done? Danny, what did you do?"_

_"Linds. I'm sorry…" He could feel the words leak out of his mouth, thick and metallic._

_He looked again: it was Rikki in his arms, writhing and moaning as she came with him deep inside her._

_"What have you done? Danny, what did you do?"_

_Lindsay's voice was still echoing in his ears, the anger and despair ringing through his head when he shuddered awake._

He wiped a hand over his face, retching and clawing at his hands as if to wipe off the blood he could still smell, still feel under his skin. Slowly, it receded, to be replaced by the stench of stale sweat.

In the distance, the clock struck the half-hour.

If he went to sleep right … now … he could still clock enough pillow-time to function in the morning.


End file.
